


And All Of My Peaches

by vash (yarost)



Series: Tom/Harry omegaverse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Feminization, M/M, Omega Harry Potter, Omega Verse, Rimming, back at it again at Krispy SIN, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 10:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarost/pseuds/vash
Summary: “You don’t like it when I’m nice,” Voldemort whispers to his mewling Omega, “You can’t have me being nice. It ruins your little act. You need to pretend you hate this.”Harry sobs. How terrifying it is to realise that while he uncovers Tom’s secrets, Tom unveils his as well.





	And All Of My Peaches

**Author's Note:**

> A brief look at Harry and Tom's married life. Y'all asked for it, I'm not going to hell alone.

                                                                 It is morning. And for the first time in many days, Harry doesn’t wake up alone.

There he is:

Head raised by his hand’s palm, dark hair falling against a face untouched by the sleepless nights. Eyes so filled with hunger and fascination that Harry shivers like a lake first touched by an incoming rain.

“Tom.” the Omega whispers, rising slowly.

It’s always a mixed blessing when his Alpha returns from his war. For one, with him come all his fatal victories, another step into the steadily crushing of the Order of Phoenix, and Tom never spares Harry of his triumphs. Every time the Alpha returns unscathed Harry’s meagre hopes wane some more.

 _The tides will not turn,_ Voldemort’s smile tells him, _and no one will come to save you._

And yet, his body’s treachery, heat or no heat, remains unbound.

It sings on its own accord whenever he’s near. A rush of warmth, an ache like hunger; he wants to be _held,_ kissed, done. When Tom comes back, his loneliness – the rawest part of it, the animal, touch-starved thing in him – mellows down.

Harry hates himself a lot for it.

Sitting down now, he runs his hands through the Alpha’s hair. There’s blood within his scent, and Harry traces it to a wound beneath his chest. His eyebrows furrow in unwanted concern.

“A muggle knife. I forgot to heal it…”

Tom answers the unasked question, his voice muffled by the boy’s shoulder – he’s scenting him, as he always does when he’s been away for too long.

Harry’s chest tightens at the carelessness of his words. Like Tom’s a boy who scrapped his knee.

“Let’s take a bath,” The Omega says. “I’ll wash the wound before you heal it.”

 

 

 

He wonders if he’ll ever get used to the winsome signs of Voldemort’s humanity: the way he groans when his body lowers into the water, his eyes closed, his handsome face gradually relaxing. He seems tired today, in a way he usually isn’t. The blood turns a faint pink the water around him.

Harry gets in too, knees against his chest, still mindful of his nakedness. Voldemort opens his eyes and looks at him. They gaze at each other for a few moments, until Tom smiles and say:

“Ask, child, what you are dying to know.”

The Omega’s lips purse and fingers that for months have itched for a wand twitch. A punch would do, with just enough bite in it to erase that smile and the poise of those words. _Child._ Harry hates when Tom calls him that. Actually he hates the whole shtick Tom’s using now, how he carries himself like an old god. It doesn’t do it for Harry anymore. Not when he’s seen the human underneath it.

“I don’t usually need to ask.” Harry replies, sharp. “You love to brag.”

Only the lingering smile as response. The common routine does not follow and Tom’s silence strikes the boy’s nerves. In a scale of anxiety knowing is only bested by _not_ knowing.

“Just tell me already!”

Tom’s smile fades at that. He has cold eyes of a ruthless creature. If needed, he would pull meat right off a human bone.

Harry sustains his gaze. They’ve been married for months now, long months of winter. Persephone, too, learned not to fear her husband.

“A young boy,” Tom says, approaching Harry, his body parting the water until the Omega is pressed against marble and Tom’s form shadows his. “Your age, perhaps. Attacked me with the knife to protect his brother. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that. Wizards don’t usually go for muggle weapons. I know how to handle them almost as well as a wand but… the lack of practice made me rusty. He was aiming for my heart.”

“What was the boy’s name?” Harry whispers, the question like a gash, not a trace of breath before the pain.

“Creevey.” Tom answers, and pauses, as if he’s trying to remember what he had for supper the other day. “Colin, I think. Yes, that’s the name his brother called out when I killed him.”

Harry is fast but Tom is faster; he catches the Omega’s wrist before the clenched fist can hit him, and pushes that lithe body against the tiles. The light is very beautiful that morning, still tinted with the sunrise’s blush. The bathroom is big but not very luxurious. Harry’s breathing hard and, outside, a bird chirps merrily.

“I HATE YOU!” the boy shouts, fighting not to drown his words in sobs. “I hate you so much, you bastard…your murderer…”

“That’s not very nice, Harry.” Tom says, holding the Omega to him. “He tried to kill your Alpha. What would you have me do?”

“NOT KILL HIM!” Harry screams again, now looking at Tom. He’s crying freely now and even then he’s lovely. Tom wonders, sometimes, how Harry can afford to feel so much. The boy sobs, too weak to fight the Dark Lord’s hold. “You promised…you promised you wouldn’t kill… and Colin was only sixteen. I knew him…”

“I promised I would diminish the bloodshed. Not that I would withdraw from it completely.” Tom settles himself between the boy’s legs, holds his Omega’s chin with his fingers and when their eyes meet he tells him: “But I shall never spare those who do not surrender.”

The sombre tone of his voice silences Harry for now. Voldemort’s expression softens. It’s been more than a week but it felt longer, and the term for what hurt in him during all that time apart from his Omega is longing and he’s never used it before. He kisses Harry’s mouth. Presses the words against them:

“I can make you forget.”

There’s a _no._ Harry’s fight is feeble, but insistent. The grief is too fresh; too shallow a grave to be overwhelmed even by how much he missed his Alpha. He remembers Colin’s unrelenting worship and the constant of his camera and the smile behind it. He remembers those lost days and a life too short to be buried and pushes and pushes against Tom until the Dark Lord’s patience wears thin.

Tom manhandles him, groans his annoyance and spread the Omega’s legs, putting them over his shoulders, pushing the boy completely out of the water, resting him on the marble that surrounds the bathtub. Harry’s eyes widen when he realises the Alpha’s intent and his face crimsons in response.

“No…!” He cries out as Voldemort’s hands grab roughly the flesh of his thighs “I don’t want it! Stop it!”

But it’s useless; his hole already gleams with its pearly wetness, loyal to the Dark Lord more than it is to Harry himself. The Omega moans helplessly as the first touch of the Alpha’s warm tongue meets the pink of his entrance, and his body arches, his anger a spark along the flame of arousal.

By now this body bears the Dark Lord no secrets. He knows what to do to make sing his captive bird. Harry loves when he’s gentle in the foreplay, when his tongue teases before slipping inside and then mouths at it hungrily, enveloping completely the ring of muscle; he loves it when Tom adds a finger or two to the mix, when the Dark Lord is feeling generous and sucks at the boy’s omegan cock while fucking him with his fingers. It makes him filthy wet.

Tom doesn’t allow him to come. He needs the boy just loose enough so he can fuck him without hurting him, and the foreplay is brief. He’s starving. It’s been too long.

Harry’s panting slightly, eyes closed, his pale chest heaving up and down, up and down. He’s thinner, and that bothers Tom. He looks _breakable._ But even before, these porcelain limbs, these frail thoughts, the light’s best soldier was already a thread of traumas. What was Dumbledore thinking? How could he hope to win by throwing this boy at him?

The boy opens his eyes, his beautiful green eyes and when he looks at Voldemort the Dark Lord feels again that unbearable rush of possessiveness, a vice deep in his loins.

“Tom…” the Omega murmurs when the Alpha presses his body to the wall and pulls his legs so they’re wrapped around his waist. On that taut abdomen Harry sees a trail of blood.  He whimpers, feeling the Alpha’s cock brush against his cunt. “Tom, your wound…”

“Don’t worry, _darling._ ” Voldemort smirks, just before he thrusts inside his little Horcrux. His bitter cruelty fills Harry with an irrational guilt. “I won’t _die._ ”

Moments like this are rare, but memorable when they come. Moments when Harry sees but the lonely creature Voldemort is and can’t help but think, fed by his own experience with abandonment, _oh, I should try to be a better Omega for him._

 _Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort, Harry?_ Said Dumbledore once.

 _No,_ he had answered, quickly.

But it wasn’t quite true, was it?

“Tom,” The Omega calls again, breathless. He feels so, so full. Outside the heat the sex is somewhat painful, he’s tight and Voldemort is too thick inside him. The pleasure is just as intense, albeit less drunk, less desperate.

Harry waits for them to still, to find the ground in which they become so easily a single being; when Tom is whole inside him and the gland of his cock nudges against his prostate. The Omega trembles, his arms over the Alpha’s shoulders, his mouth wrapped around a moan _._ He’s savouring it, all that filthy carnality, because he’s just as hungry for it as Voldemort is. But he doesn’t lose sight of what he must do. Carefully, his eyes open and his hands touch the Alpha’s face as if he’s holding something very delicate and very precious. Tom looks puzzled at him, his lips just a tad ajar, his body eager to move again, but Harry speaks before he can. He speaks, not to the monster, but to the boy in which once he saw so much of himself. He speaks to the reason of his confusion, earnestly:

“I’m glad you are alive.”

To the untrained eye, Voldemort’s reaction would be lost. Harry, however, sees it, good little wife he is, already fluent in her husband’s expressions. It’s very brief, but Tom’s eyes widen and he looks so very young. He kisses Harry roughly then, perhaps to blind him to whatever else his face might reveal.  Fucks him, too, just as roughly. The boy moans brokenly, wrapping tightly his legs around the Alpha’s waist, and lets himself be blessedly used.

 

 

It’s near noon when Harry wakes again, but he’s not tied up by any fixed schedule. His days are tediously heretic, and they take shape according to his Alpha’s availability. When Tom’s not there, Harry tries to give some meaning to his waiting; he reads and studies and elaborates a series of plans of escape that come undone before they fully germinate. When Tom’s there, however, his hours are a blur of fruitless breeding, of attempted diplomacy and of strange, lingering moments when he sees Tom as no one else ever will.

He supposes he’ll keep busy when he finally gets pregnant. The thought both terrifies and fills him with elation.

Tom had a healer exam him after that first heat when he realised his seed didn’t take. _He’s underfed,_ explained the female beta, _and first heats are rarely the best occasion for impregnation._ She had looked at Harry, no pity in her eyes as he expected – she was so kind – but instead, an elusive awe. _The next one should do it._ She told Tom. _Maybe even before if you’re lucky._

Harry rises carefully, a habit acquired from years of sleeping under the stairs that appeared sometimes again, an unwelcomed memory. There’s no need for this here, the room is large and tall. This is the dearest luxury for the Dark Lord: space. Other fancies – expensive furniture, gold-laced curtains and silk sheets do not interest Voldemort. His treasures are few and Harry hanks among them. They sleep over cotton and don’t eat with golden cutlery. Tom harbours disdain, Harry realised after a while, for the excesses of Lucius Malfoy.

The Alpha’s still sleeping beside him. It’s a rare vision; it’s usually Tom who wakes up first and he’s gone before Harry can say goodbye. In the beginning the Omega thought of killing him – maybe choke him in his sleep. It was more of a bureaucratic musing than a real drive. He could never go forth with it, and even if he did, and more so, if it _worked,_ Voldemort wouldn’t really die, just turn again into a shapeless phantom, one ritual away of getting back his flesh.

So what he does is look.

Voldemort sleeps on his side – body turned towards Harry invariably, like a compass seeking the north. He makes no sound other than the subtle cadence of his breathing. Under that light he’s painfully, unfairly beautiful, and slumbers as deep as Lucifer’s on his night in hell. This too is unusual: Tom’s a light sleeper but it seems that whatever happened during the last week must have really drained him, for Harry runs his fingers through his dark hair and traces the sharpness of his cheekbones in chaste, childlike curiosity, and the Dark Lord doesn’t even stir.

Harry tries to curse this tenderness.

Could he cut his own wrists or the vein in his neck – so close to the mating mark – and in its bloodletting rid himself of his foolishness?

Yet, he cannot bleed out his heart. He cannot fashion himself cruel. There are only so much flowers Persephone could pick. He’s lonely, he’s always been lonely. What can he do? He’s just an orphan, and the pomegranate seeds tasted sweet in his mouth after all.

Hate, once undone, is not an easy thing to fix.

 

_(What would his dead mother say?)_

 

Harry gets up and shawls his body in the flimsiest of shields, a silk kimono; the mockery of a _yukata,_ so short it barely covers his knees. He doesn’t remember the last time he wore pants, or anything masculine, really. Tom likes an open path to the sweetness between his thighs. Clothes he can unmake by the pulling of a string.

 _If not for the cold, I’d keep you bare at all times._ Voldemort whispered to him, words chuckled wickedly against his little Horcrux’s ear.

He washes his face, brushes his teeth. Looks at himself in the mirror and wonders, as he always does, how Hermione and Ron are doing. All these months and he has only been allowed a single visit, that he keeps revisiting in thought, a memory which is both a balm and a torture. They seemed unharmed. Frantic hugs were exchanged, along with anxious words.

_How are they treating you? We’re fine. As fine as we can be. Harry, we were so worried… I know. I know. It’s my fault. No, don’t say that. Have they--? No. Not recently, at least. And… And Him? He knows. About everything. And this mark… …. Yes._

_Oh._

_Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…! The fucking bastard---! I’m so sorry, mate. I can’t believe--- What will we do? What can we do?_

_I don’t know._

_Survive, for now._

 

When he goes back to the bedroom Voldemort is already up. The wound is closed, only a faint scar remains. This, too, will disappear with time.

“Are you hungry?” Tom asks.

“…A little.”

“I called for lunch. The elf will bring it soon.”

Harry nods. This is such a strange context to share with the Dark Lord. The domesticity. Finding out what he likes to eat. What he likes to read. Talking. Breathing by his side.

“I got you a gift.” The Alpha says.

Before Harry can ask what it is, Tom shows him.

Voldemort turns his right arm, and from it, from the light in his veins, blossoms a veil of feathers. For a moment, Harry doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. The creature comes out as if born from the Dark Lord’s very flesh, an owl of mighty wings, white like Hedwig once was. She curls her talons around the arm that bore her and folds her wings against her body, looking at Harry with dark, curious eyes.

Harry is speechless for a second. He approaches them slowly, and, very carefully, lifts a hand and touches lightly the bird’s head.

“She’s beautiful.” The Omega says.

“Like the one you had.” Tom tells him. “Since it was my fault that you lost yours I thought I should replace her.”

 _She can’t be replaced,_ it’s Harry’s first thought, a knee jerk reaction he tames by breathing in and out. He doesn’t say it. This is a fight he can spare himself of and Tom does look so very proud of himself.

“Thank you.” The omega says instead, politely. “I don’t suppose she can carry letters for me.” He adds, a light jab, so native in his tongue.

“Only if addressed for me.” Voldemort replies.

An unexpected annoyance, then, that Harry can’t will away so easily. An owl that can only deliver letters to a single person under the sky is a bitter reminder of the fences, both solid and metaphorical, that guard him.

“Not very useful then, is she” Harry comments, sharper now, caressing the bird’s feathers without really seeing them. He’s not mad at the creature – she has no fault in this. It’s Tom that makes him sick with growing rage and now that he’s feeling it he can’t stop himself, he doesn’t _want_ to stop himself. Rage is such a fresh variation to the usual emotions he feels around Voldemort, like a wine he can’t wait to get drunk on. And it’s kindled further by Tom’s nonchalant response:

“You are very hard to please.”

“I don’t know why you bother!” The boy snaps, stripped of pretence. The own flies off, startled by the raising of his voice, and settles herself on the top of an armchair. “It’s not like you really _care--_ ”

Tom pauses at this, more surprised than properly offended:

“I _do_ care about pleasing you. What makes you think I don’t?”

Harry looks at him, dumfounded.

“Are you fucking stupid?” The Omega says. “Are you—if you _cared_ about fucking _pleasing_ me then I wouldn’t be here with you!”

The weight of the words sinks in slowly, breaking through the high his wrath gave him. Tom gazes at him and along with the dread comes the same feeling of yesterday, that disgusting, illogical guilt… for the Alpha seems, for a brief moment, _hurt._ No, not hurt. That’s not exact. But in his face there’s a shadow of the expression Harry knows Tom must have shown, however fleetingly, every time in his childhood that the nice couple visiting the orphanage picked a child that wasn’t him.

It’s a feeling he knows all too well.

“I see.” Voldemort answers, a cold, blank veil over his words and his countenance. “You don’t like it.” He calls the bird back to him, a whistle sound. Holds the owl’s neck between his fingers. “I should break its neck, then.”

“ _No!”_ Harry screams. “No, Tom, please…. Let her go.”

Voldemort looks at him, all distaste and gelid fury.

“No? Well,” He lets the bird go, and the creature seems entirely unfazed, as if completely indifferent as to the will of its Master. “I feel like breaking _something._ Because I come home to my lovely little wife, bring him a gift too, and how does he treat me?”

He pushes Harry to the bed then, on which he falls with a small yelp. It doesn’t hurt – but there is strength pulsing in those arms, undiluted.

“Are you gonna hit me?” Harry asks, pushing his hair away from his face. It sounds artificial, a line from a nameless, trashy movie. They’re not _that_ kind of couple.

Tom joins him in the bed.

“Do I ever, Harry?”

He doesn’t. He manhandles the Omega, makes him lay on his stomach. Brings up his hips, a mirror of their first time.  That ancient position, a symbol of both the Omega’s utter submission and the Alpha’s most relentless dominance. Harry whimpers – they don’t do it like this often but by now he’s perfected it: his back is a sinful curve, eased in lordosis, his legs are spread. He’s offered like a prize to the warrior who returned from war. He tells Tom:

“If you’re going to break something then let it be me.”

“I bet you’d love that.”

Voldemort chuckles, dry, against his ear.

The Alpha gets on his knees then - Harry feels the shift of weight on the bed, the ruffle of movement – and rips apart the flimsy kimono with his hands alone. Blushing fervently, Harry feels the slick gathering in his hole. Something shameful and untamed in him reacts like this to Voldemort’s raw, muggle-like violence; he gets wet like a whore. His whole body a song of prey.

He expects to be roughly penetrated next, no preparation, no stretching. But Tom takes his time, lets fingers in where Harry anticipated a cock. He has two inside Harry’s cunt, bending them slightly, with mastery, and pulls from the Omega’s mouth all his pretty _aahs_ and _oohs_. The boy cants his hips, undulates them against Tom’s hand. It feels so, so _good._ His body melts; he is the song only Tom can play.

“You don’t like it when I’m nice,” Voldemort whispers to his mewling Omega, “You can’t have me being nice. It ruins your little act. You need to pretend you hate this.”

Harry sobs. How terrifying it is to realise that while he uncovers Tom’s secrets, Tom unveils his as well.  

Is this how their marriage will go then? Is he to be picked apart by Lord Voldemort, and, with time, to be known more intimately by him than by anyone? More than he’s known by Ron and Hermione?

By himself?

Voldemort takes his fingers out of him, turns him on his back. They look at each other, Harry with tears in his eyes.

“Please,” Harry begs.

“Please what?”

“I…I don’t know…!”

Voldemort slaps him on the thigh.

“Yes, you do. Now say it.”

“Fuck me.” The Horcrux moans. “Please, Alpha.”

Another slap. Harry whines again, not over the pain but pained with anticipation of the things Tom will force him to admit. His cunt grows wetter and wetter, as if he’s in heat. It drips down his thighs, puddles on the sheet.

“Fuck you how?” Asks the Alpha, barely angry anymore, an amused, aroused growl to his words.

Harry licks his lips. His eyelashes are wet and therefore darker. He’s beautiful and smells as a true heaven should. Looking Tom dead in the eye, he uses all his prettiness against him. He’s got one hand on the reins still. Whole springs in his fingertip. There’s might in that, too.

“Hard.” He orders. “The way I need it. _Now._ ”

Tom smiles at this, triumphant. However there’s something so naively boyish in the proud curve of his smile, an echo of a boy, of a summer, of a brief and innocent crush, ages ago. They kiss, Harry moans against his mouth. In this bed of white, unclad of night. Like any other newly-weds on a stolen Sunday morning. How happy they could be, had they been anything other than what they are.

The Alpha presses his cock against the boy’s hole, thrusts in. Harry bites his lip and hears Tom’s muffled groan on his skin.

It’s not rushed this time like it was earlier. Tom drags lazily the course of the first penetration, making Harry feel every inch, every nuance of touch. The boy arches up, one hand gripping tightly the sheets, the other dancing across Tom’s shoulder. His eyes are closed but they open suddenly as the Alpha pulls all the back and then plunges inside once more, hard the way Harry asked him to.

They move – and it’s so perfect, Harry can’t help but marvel at it, he’s an Omega and his body yields to this Alpha, he knows it bitterly, as it shall never, could never yield to any other. The boy moans as the Dark Lord bites him in the place where’s he’s marked, as he drags his lips to the Omega’s nipples and sucks at them with such eagerness, a hand on the small of his back to lift the beloved body of his Horcrux just so—

“I’m gonna knot you,” Tom groans, now biting lightly at Harry’s chest.

The Horcrux opens his eyes, trembling softly in his owner’s arms.

“Tom, _oh,_ no…”

He hadn’t, at dawn. Begrudgingly the Alpha had pulled out his cock and spilled in his own hand. For the past months Harry had begged him not to knot him, not to come inside. _I’m not ready to have children,_ the boy said, _please, Tom. At least wait until my next heat._

It isn’t the idea of children intrinsically that scares him – he longs deeply for a family, to remake what of his had been robbed in his own image – but what they would represent: another link, perhaps the strongest, in the chain that binds him to Tom.

“Yes I will,” The Dark Lord affirms, pinching one of the boy’s nipples with his fingertips “I’ll fill you up; I’ll have you pregnant and beautiful and _mine…_ ”

“I’m already yours,” the Omega sobs, trying to kiss the Alpha clumsily – he aimed for his mouth but it was cheek his lips touched instead.  He feels the Alpha halting gradually in him, the shortened staccato of his hips, “Please don’t…”

“You say this but, oh, how wet you get.” Voldemort taunts and his knot catches and his thrusts become too shallow for him to part from his Horcrux’s body, “So perfect you are, my Omega. So sweet and _ripe._ ”

The denials die unborn in Harry’s throat. The orgasm is violent – it has been so long since he last felt the swelling of a knot inside him – and his body quivers like a violin’s string as it milks the cock inside it, hungry and irrational and doomed.

Tom gazes at him. His head of dark hair shining gold at the edges, the sun panting him a most beautiful, most cruel god.

“You see, my love,” He says, a dream quality to his voice; his cock nested deep in Harry’s cunt. “You shall never escape me.”


End file.
